by Matilda Hart
Evan just sits on his horse looking sullen. His lack of support is a real bore. It is to be expected from Moira, but Evan has always been excellent close council for any of my plots and schemes. When we were children we would always end up in some sort of scrape. Stealing from the kitchens. Once we stole his father’s hounds and replaced them with a litter of stray kittens we found under a bridge near Malburny.
With Claire and Jane, I would always have to trick or cajole them into a confession when our japes were found out, they made it hard for me to stay out of the punishment end of it. Always making me work to preserve my patina of innocence. With Evan his conscience was always such that he could never abide to see me in trouble and could barely bare to be seen as innocent. At the first sign of anger from his father, he went up to him in his library and confessed everything but my involvement.
Nonetheless when the late Lord MacAmbrais relayed the tale to my own father, he put the story together in an instant and I found myself in trouble. Moira was made to beat be with a hairbrush, a task I think she always rather enjoyed, whether from religious fervour or a tendency towards sapphism I never could decide.
Evan was so upset by this he cried on my behalf far more than I ever did. Even now he has been known to tear up in the presence of a corpse. I don’t believe I even cried at my mother’s wedding, although I tried. Distress is very becoming on a woman. Especially in church.
We continue towards home, in silence. He has lost the sense of jocularity with which he hailed and his face has taken on a dark look.
A bore, a bore, a bore. An utter, utter, bore, I think. It is almost impossible not to occasionally throw across the occasional probe, just to irritate, get him upset, teach him a lesson for riding in and dragging my mood down. It really is too much, after that sense of complete joy on up on the tor to this, traipsing along – it is now getting a little cold, the sweat me and Galahad worked up is ice cold in this spring air – with a gloomy Scot sitting in judgement.
Well I have had enough, I think, and give Galahad a firm kick and set off at a gentle trot. Evan doesn’t follow which is a relief. To make a point I wait until I am far enough ahead not to be hailed but still well within his eye line to stop and go back to the gentle walk we were doing before. Out of pure spite I begin to sing from The Beggar’s Opera loud enough that he can hear that I am quite a bit happier without his company.
‘And I will love you all the day,
Every night we’d kiss and play,
If with me you’ll fondly stray,
Over the hills and far away…’
Chapter Three
Over dessert father makes an announcement in a voice which seems boyishly proud and more than a little drunk: ‘Wellington has finally got his way,’ announces Father over the dinner table. ‘We are throwing English bodies on the piles in Iberia to hold that Antichrist Napoleon back.’
‘Yes,’ rejoins Evan. ‘What the Spanish, the Egyptians, the Portuguese, the Prussians and the Italians have failed to do, I am sure the redcoats can put to rights. No one but Scotland, the Americans, and the Dutch can beat the English in the field.’ No one but me seems to notice the irony in Evan’s voice, and while father slips into a long apology for the battles lost, most of which he blames on the underhands methods of the foreign troops I turn to Lord Atwater and try to engage him in a little conversation.
I am feeling a touch out of sorts. While getting ready for this evening I have inhaled powder and rough enough enough to fill my lungs with plaster and the lead in the foundation lies heavy in my lungs. I am wearing my most brutal corset which puts a whole other strain on my lungs an makes eating much more than the soup course an impossibility. The Italian wine we are drinking is therefore very much in effect and I am feeling somewhat woozy as we go into dessert. I almost fainted trying to cool that soup, but the effort is worth it. Beauty is pain, as mama always said before she passed.
In my finest dress, and hair done just so, I am utterly outshining my mousy sister. The dress is really dangerously tightly fitted to my bodice but even that has warranted only the briefest of glances from Lord Atwater. So I find myself embroiled in the dull back and forth with my sister regarding her wedding, a conversation in which he is utterly bound by duty to join.
There is a strange tone set by the opposition of the conversations: the men beginning to slide into a discussion of the best strategies to employ in the coming conflict in the Iberian Peninsula, where none of them will ever set foot. And at the other end Claire and I, sat either side of Atwater begin to talking of the wedding. Clearly the Marquess wants to declaim on the subject of the war, but propriety says that he must answer us, and so I have him ensnared. With nothing to do but to engage the hunter directly. The metaphor is not idle, there is more than a little doe in his poet’s eyes.
‘Has the Bishop, spoken to you about the selection of hymns for the service?’ I ask Claire, knowing full well that the Bishop is unlikely to have mentioned anything yet. He is notorious for spending more time contemplating God – or at least the blood of Christ with which he keeps his cellars well stocked – than tending to his flock. On more than one occasion he has quite simple forgotten to show up to his own sermons, so deeply engrossed was he in his contemplations that he fell quite asleep. It is a source of great bitterness that following Jesus’s teachings the Bishop treats all men as if created equal and ignore’s my families needs as often as the common flock despite my families generous tithe, and large dontations to his Cathedral’s land and to the agricultural incomes of his see.
‘No,’ says Claire. ‘Though I do hope he can arrange for something in Latin, the Bible sounds so vulgar in English. Don’t you think?’
‘Nonsense, Jesus was a carpenter after all, I doubt he studied Virgil in his youth,’ I respond. ‘What do you think, Lord Atwater?’
He turns briefly from Claire and his eyes seem to show a great deal of tenderness – more than one would expect in a man like him: tall and masculine as he is, and possessed of such excellent posture. That tenderness is no doubt where the poetry is born.
He says, ‘I can’t help but feel it would be a poor choice to have to discard either the language of Horace and Ovid or the language of Shakespeare. I love both languages, perhaps the readings could be done in Latin and repeated in the King James authorised wording.’
‘You’re too tactful by half, Marquess.’ I flutter my eyelashes at him as he briefly makes eye contact. He has the most clear blue eyes. But he looks away rather quickly and I think I catch that masculine fear that comes with the dangerous passions. ‘You really should defend your fiancé’s choice.’
‘No, I couldn’t risk alienating her charming sister in the process,’ his voice has a lovely dryness of wit and he seems willing to tease. And excellent sign in a budding romance.
‘No doubt in secret you two will mock my judgement together,’ I reply. Claire blushes a little. I knew she would, Moira be damned, Claire really is a bitch.
‘Your sister would never stoop so low,’ Lord Atwater says. ‘Though I may allow myself a comment or two on your choice of dress once out of earshot. It really is too much for such a modest gathering.’ He is teasing, an excellent sign, and he has noticed my dress. The first moves are made in the opening of the game of chess.
‘Oh, Lord Atwater – Clayton.’ I allow myself the little intimacy, and judge to see if he follows suit. ‘You forget that me and Claire have lived together these last eighteen years. You cannot hide Claire’s rough edges from me. The opposite in fact, that must be my job. Lest you find out something untoward and cancel your engagement,’ this seems to suggest something to him. He appears annoyed, no doubt worried about what may be hidden from him in Claire’s past. Men hate to be deceived, and yet they are so easy to fool.
Claire manages to get his attention again with a question about his journey. I look away from him for a moment and catch Evan admiring my dress. He catches my eye with his and raises on eyebrow ironically. I smile as sweetly as I can
at him and he half-smiles back.
‘… but I rode most of the last few miles by post horse. My carriage won’t get here until tomorrow,’ Lord Atwater says. A perfect opening for me. My mind is filled with images of the tor, of us and the view and that crisp blue sky.
‘Do you like to ride, Lord Atwater?’ I ask.
‘It is one of my greatest pleasures.’
‘Excellent, we really must take for a ride up to Normere, it has one of the most remarkable views at this time of year and is terribly Byronic in a storm.’
‘Of course if my fiancé, would care to ride with me, it would be a great pleasure to see the lands of what is to become my new family. I do so want to see where Claire was brought up.’
‘Oh, Claire is not much of a rider,’ I say. ‘Her talents have always been far more demure. But I do so think a woman should have some more active pursuits.’
‘But Claire does have such a love for dancing. She quite exhausts me on the floor.’ They share a knowing smile and she blushes a little. Such a shy little mouse, she is.
‘Oh, she’s right. I am not much of a rider,’ says Claire. ‘But Alice does love to ride so. She and a few others might take you for a wonderful ride.’ She turns to me, ‘Do take him by the cart track, I dread to think of him riding along the valley path.’
‘Of course, Claire. I wouldn’t dream of putting your husband-to-be in danger. Perhaps this Sunday, Lord Atwater. Tomorrow is no good as we are going into Malburny to see what the market has to offer. You really must escort us down there.’ Perhaps I can get him alone in among the throngs at market.
‘It would be my greatest pleasure to join your party tomorrow and the ride on Sunday,’ he says in reply, but he is looking at Claire as if searching for permission to come. Then, as if taking a cue from her, he begins to insist that she join us for the ride. That it will do her good. That she has barely left the house since spring arrived.
There is really nothing for it but to let her tag along and see what can be engineered along the way to get him alone. In the meantime there is the trip to Malburny.
After dinner I suggest dancing, Evan is still deep in discussion of the coming war with Father and seems rather reluctant to be drawn into my plan. But with both my brother’s and their wives in town, and Jane here without her husband, there are more women than men and Evan is dragged away to join in the set with us.
‘Lord Atwater,’ I say. ‘Claire is really by far the best pianist, she must play, but that leaves you without a partner. Perhaps you would care to take me onto the floor.’
There is that look again, asking permission from his fiancé. Claire looks back, smiling gently, and he turns to me with a look of great regret saying: ‘Dear girl, I really cannot leave Claire alone at the piano. Besides she must dance. She is the most wonderful dancer.
With that decision made, Jane offers to play the piano for us, and I find myself standing rather bereft on the edge of the square we keep cleared for such amusement.
Then I feel a hand on my elbow. ‘First dance, Miss?’ Evan says impersonating a common Scot’s brogue, and my spirit lifts a little. How like Evan to give in like that to the morays of society. He really doesn’t have the strength to leave a woman alone on the edge of a dance despite his hatred of all this sort of frivolity.
‘Very well, Sir,’ I say in a low cockney drawl and as Jane begins to play a rapid waltz he leads me about the floor with surprising elegance. In the past he has always had two left feet, easily distractible and almost never able to both dance and talk to a partner at the same time.
‘What on earth are you wearing, Lady Beckham?’ he says, and I rather wish he was his usual stoic self. Evan has always had simple tastes in fashion and really cannot bear a woman looking too much like a woman. He prefers his fashions modest. Leaving it all to his masculine imagination. ‘You look dressed for something far more impressive than a family dinner,’ he continues. ‘Like a little girl at her first ball. Is there a party later this evening I am not aware of?’ He continues in this vein for nearly two full turns about the room before I burst out:
‘You never did understand the latest fashions. How old is the frock coat your wearing? It looks positively Jacobean.’
He doesn’t look remotely upset by this, and I am annoyed to have given away the sense of propriety like that. Taking up my silence and ignoring my outburst he begins to talk away, a little patronising and clearly amused by my apparent failure to make progress with Lord Atwater. Of course he had missed the shared glances, the teasing, and the plaintive way he is cowed and oppressed by his wife.
Looking around the room I can see him dancing with Claire who, it irks me to see, is at her absolute best, whirling around like some sort of gypsy woman by a campfire. She looks almost uninhibited and I really can’t recall her being quite so easy going and happy. Poor fool, infatuation makes such fools of some people.
It irks me to see that Lord Atwater is not looking back and seems rather impressed with Claire, utterly refusing to look over at me. I try to move my arms more, and where the dance allows to arch my back and present as elegant a figure to him as possible but he appears unwilling to look away from Claire even for a moment.
After the waltz we fall into a more traditional line and me and Evan find ourselves and several couples down the set from Atwater and Claire. He has no chance of seeing me dancing here, and doesn’t seem to be able to look away from Claire, poor man. She must nag him so, to keep him this attentive. He must not be allowed to even converse with others when she is around. She really is–
Evan’s voice cuts off my thoughts, ‘You know, charming as it is to see you chasing after another man, while you dance with me do you think you could occasionally look in my direction?’
‘Oh, Evan. Do I really need to play this game of boring smalltalk and gossip with you. I am rather occupied with matters concerning my future.’
At last anger flares up on his face. Something about that line has struck a nerve. ‘You’re a silly callous little girl, without an ounce of feeling for your sister and those around her. You will hurt people if you continue like this.’ He has never spoken to me like this and the shock is rather refreshing, he has always been so deferent to the women around him, especially myself.
Admittedly he is so seldom right his frequent apologies are to be expected but this, an outright attempt to injure my feelings is remarkable. Once the sting is past I suddenly find him far more amusing than I’ve found him in years. Still, it does not do to allow a man to behave to freely:
‘I really am worn out from all this dancing,’ I say loudly. ‘Shall we retire for a little while?’ I walk away before he can respond and I leave the room.
The family will make the connection this early in the dance and will know I must have other reasons for wanting out of the frivolities. No doubt they will be split between my being bored of his conversation, or perhaps even of him being uncouth. If the rumours are not about his rudeness to ladies, then I am sure I can drop some hints to egg them on. But I am sure they’ll make the connection themselves. They speak with him often enough to know exactly how often his manners can slip. And when they miss an incident I normally make sure to tell them myself.
Lack of food and air – and an abundance of wine – have rendered me utterly exhausted so I return to my room, ringing for Moira to lay the bed and prepare me for sleep. As I ring the bell again I make a note to remind her of the trip to Malburny tomorrow and to advise her on what clothes to lay out for me to wear tomorrow.
Chapter Four
By the time I find a bonnet I am pleased with, everyone else is desperate to crowd into one of the teahouses and have lunch. I haven’t been able to speak a word to Clayton all morning, despite numerous attempts to join my sister’s shopping party. Whenever I am there he is off talking to Evan and when I join Evan, Claire swoops in and drags him away to look at ribbons or some exotic spice brought back from the Americas.
Even when we settle into the cramped tables
of the teahouse I find myself on the very edge of out party with no one to talk to but Evan on my right and Moira in front of me. Clayton and Claire are huddled together at the other end of the party and given the long tables and benches we are sat on I can barely hear what they are saying.
Behind us are a noisy group of recent recruits heading South to embark in Bristol for the trip to Spain. And a number of older women whose husbands are otherwise away, engaged in the clay-pits or the brick kilns. There are even a few navigators who have been connecting Malburny to the network of canals which link the industry of the North with the consumers of the South.
Moira keeps asking Evan questions about my purchases: Doesn’t Lord McAmbrais like Lady Alice’s choice of bonnet? Doesn’t Lord MacAmbrais like Miss Beckham’s choice of ribbon? Isn’t Lord MacAmbrais salivating at the thought of the Mistress’s cloves and nutmeg?
Evan is polite and answers in the affirmative every time, and asks Moira a little about her own purchases: a drab little cloak and some hard candy for the little ones. She offers Evan a taste of one of the little brown sticks of sugar and he declines, sipping his tea and idly picking the burnt crust from a rather hard slice of fruit cake he ordered.
I am enjoying a small slice of jam tart and sipping at a small coffee, a rare treat which the soldiers seem to have traded from their carts instead of buying food with specie. It is unpleasant and bitter and my heart is beating rather fast, but it is a small price to pay for the exhilaration and pleasure of something so very continental. Moira of course disapproves, ‘Lord Beckham says that it was coffee that caused the revolutions in the American colonies and in Paris. He certainly doesn’t approve of his daughter drinking it.’
Which is of course why I enjoy drinking it as much as I do.
Moira prattles on and I sip my coffee watching Evan’s face bounce between me and Moira. Behind him I can see Claire and Clayton sitting close and sharing some sort of joke. Clayton does occasionally look over and when he does I try to catch his eye with an ironical tilt of the eyebrows as if to suggest a similar sort of boredom with my company as he must be feeling. Eventually I turn away and try to coax the teahouse’s cat over with some crumbs off my jam tart. Eventually the bushy tomcat rolls over from where it is sitting on the window sill and wanders over towards me, its supercilious little nose held high. There is something admirable in the way cat’s keep themselves aloof, only spending their time with those people who are worth it. No wonder Egyptians saw them as gods. If your king is a god, it makes sense that so royal an animal as a cat is too.
